Stroke
by RainFlame
Summary: Roy had been looking forward to a quiet evening at home, but all of his plans go up in smoke when a certain blond alchemist shows up at his doorstep, injured and bleeding. Parental Roy. One-shot. Rated for injury, just to be safe.


Roy valued his evenings. They were his and his alone, to do with what he willed. He could spend the time researching his passion of flame alchemy, read a book, go for a walk, or even catch up on paperwork when he wasn't sure if he would meet Hawkeye's deadlines. He enjoyed the peace and quiet of putting on a good record and sipping a hot drink, the sounds of his pen scratching across paper, the warm peace he tried to make his home exude to keep away the bad memories and nightmares.

The knock at his door was both unexpected and unwelcomed.

Hughes. It had to be. No one else was this bothersome.

He studiously ignored it, hoping against hope that he would go away and be annoying elsewhere. Roy kept his eyes glued on the paper before him, signing with a little too much pressure on the paper, making his normally neat script sharp and jagged. He only had a few more hours before it was time to turn in, and he had only come up with a partially working formula. If he could only figure out how much carbon was needed to—

The knock on the door turned into a slow, heavy pounding and Roy cradled the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger.

Would torching an unannounced guest be justifiable? Roy thought so.

An irritated groan slipped past his lips as he let his head fall to thump lightly on the desk. With herculean effort, he pushed himself away from the table and stood, dragging himself up the basement stairs, past the living room, and to the front door.

He unlocked the deadbolt and yanked the door open. "I swear, I will fry you if you're here to—"

Roy's brain took a long, slow moment to process what was at his front door.

It wasn't Hughes.

It was Edward.

And he was bleeding all over Roy's doorstep.

Golden eyes sharp with pain and muted humor met his. "Here to what?" he rasped.

The boy was leaning heavily against the door frame, face pale and drawn with pain. His real arm hanged limp while his prosthetic hand was pressed against his side, vainly trying to stem the blood flowing from it. The entire left side of his body was slick with the red fluid, and the thin scar above his eye had torn open, adding its own stream of blood to cascade down over his face. His jaw was swollen and bruised, and his shirt sleeve was ripped, even more blood dribbling down its tattered remains to drip on the porch.

And that was just what Roy could _see_.

Roy gaped, jaw working up and down as he tried to ask ten questions at once.

Though it was twitchy and weak, Ed arched a single, bloody eyebrow, lip twisted up into something half pained and half amused. "Having trouble, Mustang?"

Roy's brain finally settled on a question. _"Edward Elric, what in heaven's name happened?!"_

Ed winced, as if the question had suddenly reminded him that he was _bleeding all over Roy's doorstep._ "Stuff happened," he said, as if that somehow explained everything. "Do you have a minute?"

"A minute?" Roy demanded incredulously. "Ed, we have to get you to a hospital!"

Ed's eyes widened a bit. "No we don't! Seriously, it's not as bad as it looks!"

Roy was already grabbing his keys from the glass table by the door and slipping his shoes on. "Shut up, Fullmetal," he ordered. "Can you walk?"

"I walked here, didn't I?" he shot back. "But I'm not going to the hospital! If you're not going to help me, I'll just go find Havoc."

The boy hadn't been under Roy's command very long, but Roy was starting to get an idea of what he could expect when it came to Edward Elric. It was common knowledge that he abhorred everything to do with hospitals. Roy wasn't quite sure what the reason was, be it a fear of needles or simply the bad memories of automail surgery, but he would often patch himself up rather than admit himself to the emergency room, regardless of the severity of his injuries. If it was too much for him or Alphonse to deal with on their own, he would seek out Havoc, who had extensive training in field medicine and a soft spot for the brat.

Apparently this was something that the boy judged even too severe for Havoc, which made Roy wonder how he was still standing.

Roy fixed him with a glare. Though the kid looked like he had been put through the ringer, he still had enough in him to be a stubborn pain in Roy's backside. "Fullmetal, as your superior officer, I am ordering you to _get in the car so I can take you to the hospital."_

"I'm off duty!" Ed hissed, but the effort put a wince on his face, making the last part more gasped. "I don't have to listen to you!"

Roy arched an eyebrow. "Want to bet on that?"

Ed frowned, as if considering the merit to Roy's unspoken threat.

"Now, get in the car," Roy ordered, shoving past him and flipping off the lights as he shut the door, keys jingling loudly while he fumbled with the lock. "Before I throw you over my shoulder like a toddler and carry you there."

"I'm not short," Ed snarled from where he was still leaning against the doorframe, but there was an alarming lack of fire to the retort. He ducked his head, as if the effort to keep it raised was too much. "I knew this was a mistake," he muttered, barely loud enough for Roy to hear. "I knew I couldn't trust you with this."

Roy paused, keys hovering just above the lock. "Trust me with what?"

Ed still didn't raise his head, but he didn't reply, either.

A long, heavy sigh drifted past Roy's lips. He let his head drop against the oak door with a solid thump.

Roy silently kissed his evening goodbye.

"Fine," he relented into the door. "Fine, but if it's out of my league, I'm taking you to the hospital. No whining, no insults, you just quietly drag your injured, bleeding, undersized body to the car. Deal?"

He didn't check to see, but he could hear the hope in the boy's voice, hidden somewhere behind his defensiveness. "If that's the case, I will quietly drag my injured, bleeding, _normal-for-my-age-sized body_ to the car," he promised. "Jerk."

A faint smile twitched at Roy's mouth. He opened the door again and flipped on the lights. "Go sit in the kitchen. I don't want you bleeding all over my upholstery."

Ed limped in, muttering something inappropriate about Roy's mother under his breath as he did. Roy shut and bolted the door behind him, and after seeing that the boy made it safely into the nearest kitchen chair, ran to the bathroom to wash his hands and grab his first aid kit and a stack of towels.

When he got back, he found Ed still clutching his side, but he was still, eyes staring ahead blankly. Roy's heart skipped a beat. Had he made a terrible mistake? Was the boy going into shock?

"Ed?"

Ed's eyes flicked to him and his brows knitted together in a frown. "Is this Edward Griekke?"

It took Roy another moment to realize the boy was talking about the music still drifting from the basement. In Roy's haste, he hadn't thought about going down to shut off the record player. He relaxed a little. "I didn't know you were versed in classical music, Fullmetal," Roy commented, setting the towels on the table as he pulled up a chair beside Ed's and opened the first aid kit. "Shirt off."

Ed scowled, but took his hand away from his side to pull his jacket off. Blood began to seep anew and Roy could see the clean slit in his shirt once his shaky hands managed to get the jacket off. A knife wound? "I'm not," he said, teeth gritted against what Roy presumed was a wave of pain. "And this is Romantic era, not Classical."

"This is what you get from reading too many books, Fullmetal," Roy informed, watching as Ed tried vainly to remove his shirt. "A wealth of useless information."

Ed gave him a flat look, face half hidden behind his shirt. "You told me yourself that there was no such thing as useless information."

"I stand corrected."

"And besides that," he continued spitefully, only managing to get his real arm through the sleeve of his tank top. "I didn't get it from a book."

Roy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Let me help you before you bleed to death." He leaned forward and, much to Ed's protest, grabbed the shirt and carefully began to ease it over the blond's head.

"I don't need your help, Mustang!" he hissed, but the effect was somewhat diluted by the way he gasped sharply when the movement pained him.

"Is that what you were doing bleeding all over my doorstep?" Roy asked, slipping the ruined shirt down the automail arm and depositing it on the floor. "Not needing my help?"

"I should just punch you in that smarmy face of yours," Ed growled around a wince, once again planting his hand against his side even as fresh blood dribbled past his metal fingers.

Roy grabbed a cloth and gently eased Ed's prosthetic away, ignoring the kid's threat completely. "So, when are you going to tell me what happened?" he asked, pressing the damp towel to the puncture wound in an attempt to get some of the smeared blood away and see the damage. The wound thankfully didn't seem to be that deep. Roy decided that if he could get the bleeding under control, then he didn't want to attempt stitches. They would hurt the kid substantially without any topical anesthetic, and it would take longer to heal.

Ed didn't get a chance to answer. His breathing hitched as he inhaled sharply, face tightening with obvious agony. Roy winced in sympathy. "Sorry."

Ed grunted something like acknowledgement.

Now that the shirt was out of the way, Roy got a good look at the rest of him. His flesh arm was swollen at the elbow, possibly from a torn ligament or sprained muscle. A long cut traced down the outside of his forearm, as if from blocking a blade. Ed's whole abdomen was one vibrant bruise, mottled with blue and purple and conspicuously shaped like a knee. If nothing else, it had to hurt to breath.

Roy was starting to get concerned about internal damage.

"Ed, what happened?" he asked again, mopping up the red fluid as quickly as he could and grabbing a saline bottle.

Ed kept his gaze resolutely on the kitchen window, staring at the closed blinds with pain-filled eyes and gritted teeth. Roy wasn't sure if he was just considering his answer or if it hurt too much to speak right then. Finally, the boy took a shuddering breath and said, "Got in a fight."

Roy could feel a dark scowl start to take over his face. "A fight?" The boy was supposed to be doing desk work this week. There were no missions, no ongoing investigations. Ed should have been safe and sound in Central under Roy's watchful eye.

The fact that he had somehow gotten this injured, when he should have been perfectly safe, scared Roy for some reason. And since Roy didn't take fear well, he got angry.

"Going deaf . . . old man?" Ed asked, voice quivering as Roy began to flush the wound with saline.

"What kind of fight?" he asked, but this time his own voice was quivering with his growing anger. He tried vainly to keep his hands steady as he cleansed the wound, catching the rush of blood and debris in another towel. The white fluffy cloth turned pink in his tense hand.

A high, terse laugh broke from Ed's lips, but it died quickly. "A stupid one . . . but I look better than they do," he smirked.

Roy's insides fluttered with brief panic. "You didn't—"

"What? No! I'm not going to kill someone because they're ego-tripping jerks!" Ed assured him, eyeing the hydrogen peroxide in his hands warily. "Even if they did try to kill me . . ."

Roy breathed a sigh of relief, but with the panic gone, the anger quickly came back in to fill the gap. Roy studiously ignored the uncomfortable fact that his rage was fueled by fear for the boy's life.

"Fullmetal, you can't just traipse around Central picking fights!" Roy snarled, gripping the boy's side with probably more force than necessary. Ed only winced, though, as Roy held him and poured the liquid into the deep wound.

"What were you thinking?" he demanded, blood boiling. "You're going to get yourself killed, and what do you think that's going to do to Al? Or any of us, for that matter! Did that thought not enter into your thick skull?" he demanded, and if he had paused to think about it, he might have realized he was being cruel. But Ed could have died, and if being cruel made him stop and think next time, then Roy would be as harsh as he knew how. Ed kept his shamed gaze on the far wall. "I guess I'm going to have to start keeping you on a tighter leash, if you can't restrain yourself! What am I going to have to do? Post armed guards outside your door every night? Or maybe I could just hold Alphonse to make sure you keep in line."

Ed's blanch had nothing to do with blood loss. He turned panicked eyes on Roy. "Y-y-you can't do that! Th-that's not even feasible!" Upon noting Roy's serious expression, the panic escalated into full-blown terror and Roy regretted making the empty threat as Ed tried to stand, making as if he were about to run right out of the house. "He's my little brother! _Don't you dare touch him_!" he snarled, one hand braced on the back of the chair, halfway to his feet.

Now Roy was panicking. Of course the threat had been an empty one. There was no easy way to keep Alphonse away from his brother. Well, short of taking his arms and legs, but even then, Roy was sure they would think of a way to reach each other. To separate the brothers would be a torture neither of them would be able to take, and Roy would never do something like that. He internally berated himself for even insinuating he would do anything of the sort, especially with Ed so injured and no doubt addled by blood loss.

"Ed, stop," Roy said, voice surprisingly steady. Ed froze, but Roy wasn't sure if it was from the command or from the pain. The boy eyed him with wide, suspicious eyes. "Look, Ed, I'm sorry," he murmured, voice low and apologetic. "I shouldn't have said that. You know I would never do that to Al. I was just angry and scared. I'm sorry."

Ed frowned, something clicking behind those golden eyes. The same look he got when he was working on a particularly troublesome puzzle. "Scared?" he asked, latching on to the word as if it held some great secret.

"Yeah, just scared. I shouldn't have said it. Will you just sit down, please?" He knew he was begging, but he wasn't going to let his stupid pride get in the way right now.

Ed had come to him, injured and bleeding and trusting that Roy would somehow make this better, and all Roy had done so far was belittle and threaten him.

Roy had no right to ask for him to stay, to ask for his forgiveness. But that didn't mean he didn't want it.

Ed looked at him a moment more before he came to a decision. He set his jaw and slowly lowered himself into the chair. Roy noted guiltily that his wound was bleeding with renewed enthusiasm.

Roy picked up another towel and slowly reached for the boy. Ed didn't resist as Roy sopped up more blood, then pressed a wad of gauze over the hole. The blond winced but kept his eyes on the ground, avoiding Roy's gaze completely.

Neither of them spoke as Roy taped the bandage in place and began wrapping thin linens around his torso to keep the dressing immobile.

"They called Al a freak."

Roy didn't say anything. He didn't even look up, afraid that Ed would shut him out, like he knew he deserved. He just kept busy with his work and let Ed talk.

Ed didn't look at him, either. His voice was quiet, as if talking more to himself than to Roy. "We were on our way back to the dorms. Some thugs stopped us. I think there were seven of them, maybe. Older kids with bad attitudes. They didn't really want anything, I guess. Just messing with me. Started calling me short and stuff, and I would have let them have it if Al hadn't grabbed me." He sounded particularly petulant about that fact. "Well, they poked fun at me for a while, which is okay. I can handle it."

Roy suppressed a snort of disbelief. As if Ed's outbursts constituted 'handling it.' "What did they say?" he ventured to ask, still not looking at the boy.

Ed half shrugged before thinking the better of it and wincing. "The usual. Short, cripple, cyborg, stuff like that."

Roy felt a surprising rush of heat inside him, like a flame igniting and building in his chest, but it had nothing to do with Ed and everything to do with the punks that had dared talk like that about him. Roy would often tease him, but there were some things that were simply off-limits, subjects too personal and too sacred to be joked about. Daring to insinuate that Ed was a cripple was one of those.

And the worst part was that Ed pretended it didn't bother him at all, as if he had heard it all before.

Ed was a bad liar, even on his best days. Unless it was some sort of secret that was worth guarding with his life, he was incapable of holding a poker face. Ed tried to sound nonchalant, but Roy heard the anger and the raw hurt in his voice, a hurt that had nothing to do with physical pain.

In that split second, Roy wanted nothing more than to pull on his gloves and go incinerate the scum that had the gall to treat Edward that way.

"But then . . . they started making fun of Al." The change in Ed was almost immediate. It was like watching a storm roll in; quiet, ominous power whispering under a controlled visage. His automail hand slowly tightened with his voice. "They said he was a freak, a trash bin, a robot. I know I joke about it all the time, but that's the difference; Al knows I'm joking. These guys were trying to hurt him.

"People can call me whatever they want, but when they talk about Al . . ." the automail fist let out a plaintive groan under the strain. "Al . . . he's sensitive. He tries to pretend it doesn't bother him. He tries to pretend everything is okay and he can take it, too, but he _can't_, Colonel. He can't. You should have seen him the rest of the day, just moping around.

"He wouldn't let me beat the crap out of them, though. He told me to let it go, and I did for a while. I let them off the hook and we went home, but every time I saw him so upset by it, I just had to do something.

"So I went back there a couple of hours ago and beat the crap out of them. One of the dirt bags had a knife, though. They fought dirty, but naturally, I won. I can't go to the hospital though, because then Al will find out . . . and I'm afraid that will upset him even more. And I can't stand it when he looks at me like that; like he's disappointed in me."

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that, on top of everything else they had been through, they were being bullied and harassed. It wasn't that the boys couldn't take care of themselves—the fact that Ed had won with seven to one odds was proof of that—but this wasn't a physical fight as much as it had been an emotional one.

"You know you can't hide this from him," Roy said, gesturing to Ed's side even as he applied another bandage to the deep cut on the boy's arm. "And this looks like a sprained muscle here. I can't send you on active duty with that. Al will notice."

Ed seemed to sink lower in his chair. "I know."

The silence stretched out between them. Roy was aware that he should say something. If nothing else, Ed's behavior was improper conduct for a soldier, but it was more than that. Ed was just a kid and practically an orphan. As much as Roy hated to acknowledge it, he was one of the few adults in the boy's life that had any kind of regular contact with him. For some reason, it made Roy feel responsible for Ed's behavior on more than just a superior to subordinate level, as if he were playing some sort of role in raising the boy.

_Like a father._

The unexpected thought nearly made Roy drop the scissors in his hands. Where had that come from? That was completely ridiculous! There was no way he was some sort of father figure for Ed. He was his superior officer. His interest in the brat ended as far as he took his career. No more, no less.

_Is that why you got so mad at the way Ed had been treated? _

_Was that what that rush of fear was whenever you saw the kid bloodied on your doorstep?_

_Is that why you're treating him at your kitchen table instead of dumping him at the nearest hospital?_

Roy shoved the thoughts aside. That was ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

"Mustang?"

He blinked, eyes focusing once again on Ed. The boy was regarding him with a concerned frown. "Are you having a stroke?"

Roy realized he hadn't moved in several long seconds. He scowled and immediately finished snipping the gauze in his hand and taping the wrap around Ed's arm. "No, I'm not having a stroke," he said, bending down to see about Ed's limp. He rolled up the tattered remains of his pant leg, smearing blood on his hands as he went. Another knife wound, but much more shallow.

Ed did look relieved, but then Roy noticed a mischievous glint suddenly flare in his eye. "Just checking. I know _old_ people get those sometimes, so—"

"I am _not_ old," Roy growled.

"You're no spring chicken, though. What with those gray hairs coming in—"

_"I'm not even thirty!"_

"—and the wrinkles."

_"There are no wrinkles!_ Maybe if you were tall enough to see past my knees you would be able to see that."

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SHORT?!"

"Hang on, let me check." He mimed scanning the room. "Wait, where'd you go? I lost you!"

_"Mustang . . ."_

"Tell me, is dwarfism hereditary?"

Ed ground his teeth. "I will _murder_ you," he promised. "I will murder you, then drive you to a vacant lot and dump your smug, smirking corpse and drive away and I will _be happy_."

"Don't be ridiculous, Fullmetal. Your stubby legs wouldn't reach the car pedals."

Ed's face turned an interesting shade of purple. Before he blew up and started bleeding everywhere again, Roy decided to change the subject back to his original concern. "We need to talk about tonight."

Ed blinked at him, his rage momentarily forgotten as his brain tried to follow Roy's sudden change of topic. He finally scowled, looking like the petulant teenager he was. "I didn't come here for your lectures, old man."

Roy returned the glare, his noticeably a few degrees warmer. "You come here looking for help, I'm giving it to you. The least you can do is learn something from this. Call it Equivalent Exchange."

The blond sulked, turning to stare at the sink. "I think I paid enough in blood."

"What's the point of pain if you don't learn anything from it?" Roy demanded, quickly losing what little patience he had left. "Al was right, Ed. You should have just let it go."

"Not after the things they said about Al."

"I know you're trying to protect your brother—"

"What do you know?!" the boy suddenly shouted, glaring at Roy before averting his gaze back to the safety of the sink. "You're just some jerk Colonel with a god complex! Don't pretend that you understand."

"And you're just a kid!" Roy said, his own voice rising. "You don't have all the answers!"

Ed went still, and for a moment, Roy felt a stab of uncertainty. Perhaps he had gone too far . . .

Ed slowly turned around, fixing Roy with a fierce stare. There was righteous anger, defiance and a clear challenge in those golden depths. "I'm not a _kid_," he hissed, voice low and slow, a dangerous, frightening edge to it that Roy had never heard in the boy's voice before. And in that moment, Roy was almost afraid. Of what, he wasn't sure, but he felt the thrill of it in his gut. "I may be young, but I'm not a kid. I've earned my way here, so don't you _dare_. Don't you _dare_ just dismiss me like a child."

Somehow the way he kept his voice so quiet was more frightening than all the screaming he ever did.

The air suddenly went cold as they stared at each other, neither one willing to be the first to break eye contact.

"You're right," Roy finally relented. Ed blinked in surprise, but Roy continued before he could say anything. "You're right that you've earned your way here, Ed. But you're only thirteen. You _are_ still a kid, and what you did tonight proved it. The way you acted wasn't appropriate for a soldier or for a man. There was no sense in your fight." Ed tried to interrupt him, but he held up a hand. "Did you prove your point? Did you show them that Al is more than a suit of armor? Then what was the point, except to make you feel better? Don't kid yourself, Fullmetal. You weren't fighting to help Al, it was for you. For your guilt."

For once, Ed seemed to be stunned silent. He stared at Roy with wide eyes, and Roy thought he saw tears gathering before the boy looked away, blinking furiously. His shoulders slumped, bangs falling forward to hide his face from view as he took a shuddering breath.

And Roy was afraid Ed might never speak to him again. He didn't dare continue taping another cut on the boy's arm, afraid that if he touched him, the boy would lash out. He just sat, immobile and uncomfortable in the tense, dark silence.

"You're right," Ed finally whispered.

It was Roy's turn to be stunned silent.

"It was for me. Because it's my fault Al's in that armor. It's my fault he feels like a tin can. Because I was stupid and too scared to raise Al by myself and _I _wanted our mother back and _I_ talked him into it, and he has to suffer for it." His voice was thick and breaking with emotion. He breathed again, even more raggedly than before. "I guess you're right. I am just a dumb kid; a dumb kid that screws up and hurts the only people that matter."

Roy felt something inside of him shatter. How did one child harbor so much guilt? How could he just put on a façade that was so carefree and so determined, and inside be so broken?

Roy wasn't sure what to say, what could possibly make this better.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, placing a hand on Ed's bowed head. The blond flinched, but didn't otherwise react. Roy took it as permission to continue. He wasn't sure where the words were coming from, but he felt them tumbling past his lips. "I'm sorry you boys had to go through that. I'm sorry you were alone and scared and you thought that was your only option. I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner."

Roy took a deep breath, feeling a peculiar tightness in his chest as he did. "What you did wasn't right, but we all mess up. Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we make bad calls and we screw up, and it's not because we're stupid. We have the best intentions and somehow everything just comes apart and we fall. But it's not the falling that defines us, Ed. It's when you stand back up and _keep going._ It's when you promised your brother you would get his body back, and when you had automail surgery and therapy in one year and joined the military and proved to everyone that _this wasn't going to beat you._ You're stronger than your guilt, Ed. You're stronger than your mistakes and you're stronger than the consequences. And I know without a doubt that if anyone is going to beat this, it's you, Ed. You and your brother."

Ed was still for a moment, only his shallow, pained breaths stirring him. Then, he wiped his automail hand down his face and looked up, eyes glistening and smeared tear tracks tracing down his swollen, bloodied face as he regarded Roy with something like gratitude.

Roy leaned forward with a towel to wipe the blood and tears away, then tended to the last cut over his eye. "Well, Fullmetal, that takes care of that for now," he said, clearing a surprising amount of emotion from his throat. "Now that I'm almost out of tape."

Ed looked at him for a moment, then the barest of smiles lit his face. Roy was relieved to see it. "Maybe you should stock better," he suggested, his own voice rough and quiet.

"Yes, when you're going to be in town for any length of time," Roy agreed. He glanced at the clock and winced. "Well, it's too late for you to be walking around. If you're nice, I'll let you crash on the sofa. My guest room is too nice for you to bleed all over." In truth, Roy wasn't sure if the boy could make it up the stairs.

"I don't need to stay with you," he said with a hint of his old irritability shining through. "Al's waiting on me."

"I'll call him and let him know where you are—and don't worry, I won't mention anything about why you're here," he promised at the panicked look that crossed the boy's face.

Ed slumped in his seat in obvious relief. "I don't want to stay in your sorry house, jerk," he protested, but there wasn't much steel to it. His eyes were drooping with exhaustion and there was no doubt he was still fighting the effects of blood loss. Roy wasn't sure he could walk to the door, much less back to his dorm.

"You say the sweetest things," Roy cooed. "I'll throw a sheet over the couch and find you a pillow."

Roy did his best to make the sofa more comfortable. He scavenged a blanket and pillows from his guest bedroom, then helped Ed limp over to it, his mind occupied all the while by their conversation.

Ed had been through too much. He had faced things no child should have to face and more, but Roy knew he would pull through it. He had a rough road ahead of him, one that would no doubt get a lot worse before it got better, but Roy made a promise to himself. He would be there for the boy. He would be there to lead him when he lost the way, to pick him up when he fell down. He would cajole and heckle him when he needed a push, and he would encourage and reassure him when he needed a hand.

Because that's what commanders did for their subordinates.

_That's what fathers did for their sons._

Roy froze again, halfway through the motion of throwing the blanket over the wounded boy sprawled out on his sofa.

"Another stroke?" Ed asked, a smirk on his lips but eyes questioning.

Roy shook his head, but a fond smirk found its way to his own lips. "Something like that," he admitted, getting the throw to rest on top of the boy. "Now that it's well into the wee hours of the morning, I hope you realize I still expect you to be at the office at eight o'clock sharp."

Ed scowled. "Yeah, yeah. Pretentious jerk," he grumbled.

"Maybe if you're lucky I'll even give you a ride."

"Have I mentioned you're a jerk?"

Roy stared down at the blond child for a moment, remembering something as he became aware again of the music still playing down in the basement. "You never did tell me where you heard Edward Griekke's music," he said, suddenly intensely curious.

Ed yawned, eyes drooping even further as he pulled the blanket up around himself. "Hoenheim used to play it for us . . . before bedtime . . ." the boy replied sleepily, eyes closing as exhaustion and blood-loss took their toll. In moments after becoming horizontal, Ed was out like a light.

Hoenheim. Ed's father.

Roy shook his head and couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips.

A stroke indeed.

* * *

_Well, I've been working on this for forever lol. Not quite satisfied with it, but I'm about to go out of town, and seeing as how I won't be able to update "Stairway to Paradise" for another week or two, I thought I'd give you something to make up for it lol xD_

_Anyways, this is a gift fic for Sakura-Nights on deviantart. She was the one that had Vic Mignogna read a line from my fic "Heart" and recorded it and put it on Youtube c: Naturally I had to do SOMETHING for her, so she wanted a fic. I will be writing her another one, just because that made my life xD_

_Edward Griekke is my lame attempt at being clever lol. You know how their names are sort of different when they're on different sides of the Gate? Like, Alphonse was Alfons? Well, Edward Griekke is my Amestris version of Edvard Grieg. He was a Romantic era composer. Really gorgeous music, I highly recommend him ;)_

_I'm going to make a valiant effort at responding to all reviews from the last chapter of StP tonight before I go to bed. Wish me luck lol xD_

_If you have time, drop a review! I'd love to hear your thoughts :)_

_Hope you enjoyed!_

_God Bless,_

_-RainFlame_


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